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Chapter Four

‘I won’t be a minute. I’m in a frazz, as usual.’

I was in Sam’s kitchen. The contents of her bag appeared to be scattered across her kitchen table: tissues, lipsticks, purse, nail file, powder compact, make-up brushes and something that looked like one of those Fitbit heart monitors. In the middle was an opened bottle of fizzy pink plonk with a huge half-full wine glass next to it. She took a large swig.

‘I know you’re driving, but do you want a sneaky half a glass?’

‘Oh god, no thanks, Sam. There’s no way I’m drinking after last night.’

‘Sure? Cup of tea?’

‘I don’t think we have time, do we?’

Sam wasn’t ready and I’d been five minutes late as it was.

‘Probably not,’ she said, rifling through a drawer and pulling out random five pound notes to stuff in her purse. ‘Here,’ she said, picking up and thrusting the glass in my hand. ‘Go on, have a quick sip. It’ll calm your nerves.’

‘I’m not nervous.’ Dread might be a better word. But I took a large sip anyway.

‘Hair of the dog. Never hurts.’ Sam grabbed a sheer black t-shirt from the side and threw it over her balcony bra and impossibly sculpted abs.

‘You look amazing,’ I said.

‘Thanks,’ said Sam, attempting to see her reflection in the door of the microwave. ‘You don’t think the sheerness is a bit much? I’m trying to distract from my face.’

‘What’s wrong with your face?’

‘Nothing a large syringe of Botox and a week in the Bahamas wouldn’t cure.’

‘Honestly, Sam, you look fabulous.’ For all her zealous calorie-counting and burpees and Power Yoga DVDs, my dear friend had her insecurities, like the rest of us.

‘Thanks,’ she said, sounding unconvinced. ‘And look at you!’ she continued. ‘You’ll be beating them off with a stick!’

I looked down at my black pencil skirt and black suede courts. I’d tried to make an effort tonight despite my mixed feelings about the evening. I’d put on my slinkiest cream blouse (with diamante buttons) and my most flattering skirt, and had taken ages with my make-up. My usual three-minute pre-work slap on probably wouldn’t cut it tonight – I’d used all the players in my make-up arsenal, including a new brow pencil I was experimenting with. I was risking a slightly grumpy-looking Scouse Brow but I think it had worked okay. Sam hadn’t said anything, anyway.

‘You don’t think I look a bit mumsy?’

‘Not at all, you look classic.’

‘Thanks, Sam, you say all the right things.’

I have to be a careful dresser. I have a lot to contain. There’s that phrase, isn’t there, about pouring curves into clothes; in my case, it’s more like stuffing them in, but I can hold up okay, with the right scaffolding (i.e. Spanx) and the right style of clothes. I never wear trousers, for example, they make me look like a traffic warden. I tried to lose weight once, but it didn’t really work; my face went all gaunt and I looked weird so I decided to keep my curves. Jeff always said he liked them – he said he loved my sizeable bottom – but obviously he didn’t, not that much. He now prefers to get a handle on the skinny witch that is Gabby. My curves were too much for him, that’s all I can conclude. A better man would have appreciated them forever.

So I’d donned the scaffolding and clothes I hoped suited me. Before I’d left the house at half eight, I’d checked myself from all angles and given myself a once-over with the de-fluffing roller, then I’d thrown on my beige faux-fur coat and tottered out of the house with an enforced wiggle. This pencil skirt was on the tight side, but was a trusted favourite. I hoped Sam was right and that I looked classic and not an old fright.

‘Are you nearly ready?’ I asked Sam.

‘Nearly,’ she said. ‘I’ve just got to do my nails. Are you excited about tonight, Daryl?’

‘Excited? No. Looking forward to it in a weird, kind of warped-curiosity way? Yes.’

She sat down, grabbed a fuchsia nail polish from a drawer she pulled out behind her, and started painting her nails.

‘Are you scared to put yourself out there, because of what happened with Jeff?’

‘Mmm, let me see,’ I said. I pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her. ‘I loved a man, thought he loved me, gave him a daughter, was married to him for umpteen years despite him being a bit of an arse, then he ran off with my best friend. Of course I’m scared. You know I am!’

‘You’ll be okay, Daryl, honestly. I’ll be there. How does it feel without your wedding ring?’

I looked down at my left hand and twiddled the space where my ring used to be.

‘Honestly? Half fabulous, half really, really sad. But I’m glad it’s gone.’

‘If you feel sad with it missing you can always get some big old costume jewellery for the other fingers.’

‘Hmm… there’s not looking mumsy, then there’s crazy lady!’

‘Ha, nothing wrong with a little bit of crazy!’

‘You’d know!’

‘Absolutely,’ she grinned. ‘You really will be fine, you know. And if you’re not, I’m here to catch you.’

‘Well, thank you. Don’t do it yet, though – your nails aren’t dry.’

I finally got her out of her kitchen fifteen minutes later, but she was now faffing with her hair at the hall mirror. I tried to steer her towards the front door with both hands on her shoulders.

‘Come on,’ I pleaded with her as she reached for the Elnett the seventeenth time. ‘Put that down. We’ve done all we can. And it’s going to have to be very speed-y dating if we turn up half an hour late!’